Strangers in a park
on the sidewalks, in the grocery lines
faces—like blank money, with the same value.
Character doesn’t advertise
it rears up, like a snake, when it needs to kill.
Strangers have a story—they might even believe it
but they are strangers to themselves
lies serve more of a purpose than the truth
there is more at stake, past 30
people don’t read—they don’t read each other
they can’t look inside and read themselves
they are hypnotized, distorted—like they are listening underwater.
So, what do we do—when we are expected to have relationships with each other?
We don’t have a manual to understand
what can only be known
around a campfire.
Secrets are rare, because gossip abounds
but the secrets that have been buried underground
will never be dug up
because they don’t exist
in the hidden mind.
The human being is a labyrinth of lies
innocent, and not so innocent
feeling for feelings in the dark
like trip-wires on a minefield
in a silent war—oh, to keep it silent
it’s the only way to win.
If one gets to the end of their life, and doesn’t know the person sitting across from them
doesn’t know, why a certain person dislikes them
doesn’t know their faults—separating them from the whole
what kind of life was it?
In the wasteland
families are broken
parents visit their children after a stressful day
we are ghosts to each other
and seeing the living room wall.